“I’m Capgras, visited the Thistledon forum for a while, never made it to one of your meetings yet."
“You’re the journalist, the guy who went to prison?”
“It was me sent you the information on those silos down in Devon.”
Jimmie grunted. No one likes being reminded that they owe a favour. “So what can we do for you?”
“May I come in? I see you’ve got a fire going."
“Suppose you’d better."
While Jimmie put the kettle on, Capgras settled into an armchair beside the wood-burning stove. Capgras examined the place. Shelves groaned with books on everything from organic gardening to alien incursions, via birds of the British Isles and the history of the steam locomotive. “Roomy, for a shed."
“Needs to be. I’ve a good few hobbies. You here about Thistledon?”
The forum was home to a group of self-styled urban explorers who took it upon themselves to survey disused bunkers, former military bases and anything with the allure of the secretive and mysterious. Capgras had frequented it for several years, out of his professional interest in all aspects of the security services.
“I hear some of the sites around Corsham are being used again."
“I heard that too."
“Someone said you have maps of the tunnels."
“Might do."
“I was hoping you might let me see them. Even borrow them."
“Why do you want them?”
“Go exploring."
“Not a good idea. Not now, get yourself in a heap of trouble."
Capgras had won round Doug and Freddie by telling them the truth about Emma and Ben, though he’d gone easy on Apostle, and not mentioned the murder of Albright. But this wasn’t a man to tempt with tidbits of conspiracy. He’d spin a thread of fact into a tapestry of subterfuge and hearsay, and have a wild, outlandish theory online faster than a UFO breaking the light-speed barrier.
The truth was too dangerous. Money wouldn’t swing it either.
“I’ll share what I find,” Tom said. “You’ll be told first, before the paper, before anyone.”
Freddie handed him a coffee. “Told about what?”
Tom gripped the cup in both hands, warming his palms. He blew on the surface, pausing for dramatic effect. “You know the rumours. That they used the old quarries to house artefacts.”
“I heard talk…”
“Alien artefacts.”
“They denied it…”
“They would, they always do."
“So you think you can get in there now…?”
“They’re moving them out, taking them somewhere. Doing it today, tomorrow at the latest. This is the last chance…”
“I’m coming with you."
“No. I have to go alone. The risks are too great."
“I’ve been in there before,” Jimmie said. “You need me."
“”I can’t take you. Me and no one else. My contact insists."
“Someone on the inside?”
“High up, willing for the truth to come out at last."
“It’s about time."
“But I need those maps."
“This contact doesn’t have any?”
“Not the old charts, showing the disused tunnels."
“All right then, it’s in a good cause."
“We can make the announcement together, once we find the proof."
“I’d like that."
“Where are they?”
“At home."
“You don’t keep them here?”
“They’re on the computer. One of the guys scanned them."
“That’s ideal. I have to get moving. There’s no time to lose."
“Right you are,” Jimmie said, “follow me.”
Chapter 69
Inside Information
Ben gunned down the zombies with manic precision. Another animated corpse staggered from a side door. As it lumbered forward, he reloaded his shotgun with swift, skilled hands and fired again. Blood splattered across the walls of the post-apocalypse warehouse.
It was the kind of computer game his mother never let him play. Here, no one seemed to mind. The man who called himself his father even encouraged it. “Get the bad guys, that’s the trick,” Shepherd had said.
Very well, Ben thought, I’ll learn to shoot bad guys if that’s what you want.
He adjusted the massive headphones that smothered half his head. They gave the appearance of a boy lost in his fantasy world unable to hear a thing. Ben, however, had the sound turned off. He was gathering information.
From behind him came the familiar clip clat of the table tennis ball, interspersed with the chatter of the men on their break talking of football and beer, women and work. They spoke of how technology would let them down, the management didn’t understand and the systems were inflexible, the hours too long, the pay not good enough and they hated being down here, deep under the ground, sometimes for weeks on end. Work, sleep, work, sleep, play a little ping pong, work, sleep and eat.
Ben drank in every word, gathering facts. He knew the computer passwords and the user login name. There was only one. Everyone logged in as ‘oper,’ for ‘operative,’ to obscure any digital trail. He’d learnt that by eavesdropping in the canteen. He’d learnt more by reading over shoulders and looking through Shepherd’s briefcase. Ben had gathered the names of systems and tools, of projects and programmes, people and places. But he’d still not found the clue he sought, the one that would reveal the chink in the armour where a knife might be thrust into the dragon’s flesh.
The talk at the ping pong table turned to surveillance and safety, and how the new central locking system that controlled every door had a bug in it. How to fix it? Locate the flaw, they agreed, before the bosses found out. Before the bigwigs arrived, and the site went fully live, complete with an exploit in the software that could blow the security wide open and get them sacked into the bargain. Ben adjusted his headphones and clicked relentlessly on the controller, killing zombies as fast as they could spawn, taking mental notes and formulating his plan.
Chapter 70
The Hidden Gate
Capgras stared at the chain-link fence. Behind stood a mound of earth but no gate, door, or entrance of any kind. This was the right spot though. The Ministry of Defence ‘keep out’ sign confirmed it.
He used bolt croppers to cut a hole in the fencing and crawled through. Kneeling on the grass, he ran his hands over the ground until he found the hidden handle. He pulled it up, and the turf lifted with it, revealing steps down into a dank, dark tunnel. After propping stones under the hatch so that a chink of light would reveal its location, he double-checked the maps Jimmie had given him, making sure he understood how this exit related to the network of bunkers and tunnels that criss-crossed the hills and quarries around Corsham. Satisfied, he wriggled back through the hole in the fence.
Capgras parked his motorbike in woods nearby, leaving it on its side, with his helmet and a spare one for Ben. After covering the Norton with a blanket of leaves he patted the bike to reassure her, told her to wait and be a good girl, then set off to walk the country lane towards the entrance of the newly privatised control and command centre.
Chapter 71
The Dragon’s Hoard
The dragon’s lair lay deep and dark underground, far from the sight of men. Here the monster felt secure. No one knew of its caves, and if any suspected, they would never penetrate them. If a thief dared to break in, he would not escape. The treasure which this dragon hoarded was not gold or gems or jewels. Information was its currency. Data was the wealth it craved above all else. Knowledge, after all, is power. And power, over the lives of its citizens, the ability to predict, corral and control its people was food, drink and lifeblood to the beast.
The monster slept with one eye open. Here, from its deepest lair, it watched all things. Millions of surveillance cameras fed its insatiable hunger. A torrent of data poured through the computer systems that ticked along in
the darkness, seizing on anything divergent or different and hauling it into the daylight so it could be analysed and picked over by servants of the creature, men chosen for the coldness of their hearts.
The monster feared what people said about it when it wasn’t listening. So it made sure to be always listening. The beast, ancient and haggard, had survived many centuries and seen too much upheaval. The creature hated change, despised the little folk that scurried like rats, too small to control or catch or drive away. They kept breeding. Every year, more of them. They shared stories and swapped ideas and conspired to steal the dragon’s hoard. It remembered when they started all of this, with their damned books and pamphlets, talking up revolutions that swept the anointed ones from their thrones.
Never again.
Information must be controlled. If the rats made computers and used them to plot and collude, then the dragon would turn the weapon against them, creating a poison that would constrain the vermin once and for all.
The monster slept fitfully, an eye open, an ear twitching, listening, watching. Alert.
Chapter 72
The Monster’s Den
Tom flashed his identity card for the umpteenth time. The guard pretended to care but waved him through with barely a glance. The computer chip, expertly hacked by one of Ruby’s friends, working from a prototype supplied by Doug, connected with the system and entered the requisite data. A light blinked, a buzzer beeped and the door slid open.
Capgras was in.
He consulted a work-chart, taking vital seconds to get his bearings. The canteen was along the corridor to his left, two doors down. That was the place to start. A chance to sit and listen, to take stock and work out where they were holding Ben.
He ordered a coffee and croissant and carried them to a table. The room had no windows. They were fifty feet below ground, he guessed, maybe more, deep in the bedrock, where even an atomic bomb couldn’t shake them. Two men in suits and open collared shirts with no ties sat near the door, eating from wooden trays and talking about data lakes and IT silos. Another man in overalls perched on a stool reading a tabloid newspaper while absent-mindedly holding a bacon sandwich close to his mouth. Now and then he would take a bite, his eyes never moving from the sports section of the red top gossip rag.
Two women loitered behind the shelves of food, the trays of hot meals and the bowls of salad and vegetables, lasagna and roast potatoes. Capgras bit into the croissant. It was stale and tasteless. He sipped the coffee. Bland yet bitter – that was some achievement. He studied the maps on his phone. They showed entrances and exits, old tunnels dug during the Second World War, or the First Cold War, but nothing of the new living quarters fitted out by DarkReach, nor the security gates and locked doors he would have to get through if he was ever to find Ben.
Capgras glanced at his watch. Mark would be in position. They had to act in unison. Time to take a risk. He slugged the last of his coffee and strolled across the room towards the IT technicians. “Guys, you seen an eleven-year-old around, name of Ben. His father said he’d be in the canteen."
“Rec room, down the corridor, second on the right.”
“He’s playing computer games,” said the other. “Probably forgotten what time it is."
“Kids, eh?”
“Yeah, kids.”
Ben was alone, focused on a screen, shooting zombies, huge headphones over his ears. Tom crept up behind intending to make the boy jump. But Ben heard him coming, span round, and yelled with excitement. “How did you get in? Did you fight them? Or sneak in like a spy?”
He showed Ben the maps given to him by Jimmie. “We have to find these tunnels. Have you spotted an entrance? A disused door? A ‘keep out’ sign?”
“They don’t let me wander. And they’re watching all the time.” Ben pointed to the surveillance camera in the corner of the room. It revolved menacingly towards them.
“Shit, they know I’m here.” Some rescue this turned out to be. “We’d better run for it."
The door to the rec room burst open. Two guards in uniform blocked the exit. Behind them stood Bob Shepherd. “Fuck.” How did they find him so fast? Had he been betrayed? Who did it, Freddie, Jimmie? Or was it the surveillance? They must have facial recognition software, even down here.
He pressed the option on his phone to delete all data. His mind hurried through options. Fighting was hopeless. He could tell the guards the truth - that the boy had been kidnapped. But if Shepherd was their boss, they would never turn against him. Besides, he was here on faked ID. Nothing he said would cut any ice.
Shepherd advanced on them. Ben ran towards him as though for protection.
Clever lad, Tom thought.
“Did he hurt you?” Shepherd asked.
“Only talking."
“Go back to your room."
“I hate it there."
“Don’t make me ask again."
Ben slouched towards the door but he threw a last look at Tom and flicked his left hand in a gesture that might have meant anything: goodbye, good luck, stay strong, say hello to mother for me. Then the boy was gone.
Shepherd took the phone from Tom’s hand. “I guess this means the deal is off."
He’d have to bluff this out. Act tough, be assertive. “I came to see Ben, make sure he was safe. I’ve got the right. Let me leave and take him with me. Do it, or yes the deal will be off and everything goes public. It’ll be your fault, and Fulton-Rhodes won’t be pleased.”
“That’s Sir Leo to you."
“Whatever."
“He’ll be most concerned to learn of these developments."
“I’m sure he will. Are you responsible for security here?”
“Not my remit."
“Shame."
“So I’ll make no delay in letting him know."
“Remember to mention how I was checking on Ben’s safety. Nothing more."
“Take him to a cell,” Shepherd said. “Lock the door and post a guard. And don’t believe a word he says. He’s a reporter. Tells lies for a living."
“Bit rich coming from a spy."
“If he gives you any trouble, rough him up."
The guards smirked as if they relished the prospect. They threw a cloth bag over Tom’s head, handcuffed him and led him along a maze of corridors, turning left and right, back and forth until he had no idea how deep he’d been taken underground, or how far from the light of day. When they finally stopped, a key clanged in a lock and a metal door creaked open. They were about to push him inside when someone called out, telling them to wait.
Capgras recognised the voice, it was unmistakable – the man from the police station – Owen Naylor, professional thug and general fixer for DarkReach. Naylor whispered something to the guards. The handcuffs were removed, then the bag over his head. Naylor shoved him into the cell, but he didn’t slam the door. Instead, he followed Tom inside, kicked his legs from under him and Capgras hit the floor with a thud.
Chapter 73
The Prison Van
The prison van rocked from side to side, jolting her up and down as if driving on an unmade road. Where were they?
Emma sat hunched on the bench seat, alongside four other women. Her hands were cuffed behind her back and she strained to stay on the seat. The woman next to her slid onto the floor and struggled to get up.
No one could help her. They were all cuffed.
“Use your forehead to push yourself up,” said one of the women.
“You’ll get the hang of it,” said another.
The prisoner lurched to her feet just as they turned a corner. She crashed into Emma, ricocheted off her and across to the other side. The women grunted and moaned.
“Where the hell are they taking us?”
“To a farmyard, by the feel of it."
The van slowed and came to a halt. When the guards got out the front, the women fell silent. Voices outside murmured but Emma struggled to make out the words. The sound of a car engine grew louder. More voices.
>
“Let us out, there’s no air in here,” yelled one of the prisoners.
A fist thumped on the side. “Shut up in there."
“Something’s wrong here,” a prisoner whispered. “They’re up to something. I don’t like it."
“Not much you can do about it,” said another.
“Make a complaint. See how far that gets you."
Emma was in no rush to get to the new prison. And she’d been glad to see the back of the old one. She half-hoped the van would break down, and they’d have to be transferred. That might mean a few precious minutes in the outdoors, breathing fresh air.
Doors slammed once more as the guards climbed into the front. The van pulled away, turning around and going back the way it had come. Who had they met? What had been discussed?
“It’s not right,” a woman said.
“Never done this before."
“We’ll find out soon enough,” said another. “Sooner than you might want."
Chapter 74
To Rescue The Princess
Mark Waterstone paced back and forth on the old stone bridge that crossed the main road. He watched the traffic, glanced at his phone. It should be here by now. He couldn’t have missed it.
The tracker on the van had been working all morning, reporting to an app on his phone, giving him the position of the vehicle. He followed it across the city, saw it leave London. Ten minutes ago, it went dead. No warning, nothing. Had the device been found?
He kicked at the wall of the bridge. His car was parked out of sight, with a sawn-off shotgun on the passenger seat along with his ski-mask and gloves. He wasn’t planning anything sophisticated. He’d use a police issue stinger across the road to burst the tyres of the van. Once he appeared, gun in hand, the guards would go into lockdown, call for help, but refuse to come out of their bullet-proof cabin. That suited him fine. He had small explosives to blow off the back doors and cutting and drilling tools in the boot of the car to deal with emergencies. None of the prisoners would be considered high security so there was no danger of the guards being armed, or of police escorts. They would be on his trail soon enough, but he had three changes of vehicle lined up and the last of them capable of a two hundred miles an hour down the motorway.
Cold Monsters: (No Secrets To Conceal) (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 2) Page 24
